The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  “Indeed. He will guard his actions with care, unless he knows he is discovered.

  “It is therefore imperative that when we find him, we guard our knowledge with equal care until the location is empty of all but the warriors of our Lord.”

  Santos bowed. But his smile, as he rose, was grim. “It is seldom,” he told the Radann par el’Sol, “that the Serras invite the Radann to inspect their territory.”

  “Indeed. But I do not believe that we will find our enemy in the midst of the women. The Tor’agar spoke—briefly—of an envoy within Sarel. It is there that we will find what we seek.”

  “And when we find what we seek, par el’Sol?”

  “Then,” Marakas said grimly, as a man does when he speaks truths that are unpleasant, “we wait.”

  Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente surveyed the men he could see in a grim silence. They stayed to one side of the bridge, by his command, positioning themselves along the East bank. The buildings in the East provided some cover, but it was scant; cover in the West was better, but it was denied them.

  Orange light, surrendered by oiled wood and swinging lamp, lent glint to helm and revealed in chain a warmth of color that was in no way warm; it drew the eye. War colors, in the night. No camp had been made, although some precautions had been taken upon the Eastern road. If the Tor’agnate was canny enough to split his forces, it would not be by the Eastern road, or the thin windbreak provided by its scant trees, that they would catch Clemente unawares.

  But across the river, the slender ribbon of Western road stretched into moonlight and darkness to either side of Damar. The shadows in the lee of the old forest lay across it like a shroud; even the waters seemed to shun its banks.

  It was not always so, and it seemed an omen.

  But of what? He was not a woman; not of the Lady. He could not say. Yet it seemed that something lay poised within the Deepings, and he felt the certainty of its presence like the cold, sharp cut of a perfect blade.

  Let it, he thought, be our allies. Let it be only our allies.

  The stag. The forest lord. The Northern strangers.

  Wind replied. Wind caught his hair, the edges of his surcoat, the strands of Quickheart’s mane. Even when the sun was absent, the wind’s curtain fell; neither light nor darkness were proof against its voice.

  Reymos and Adelos brought their horses to either side of Quickheart.

  Above the sound of hooves, the nickering of nervous horses, the muted speech of men, above the quiet flow of water through the riverbed, came the voice of rolling thunder.

  Ancient thunder; the greetings of the Tors of the plains.

  “Tor’agar,” Reymos said. “He has brought the drums of war.”

  “His drummers do not speak of war yet,” Alessandro replied, his words riding the crest of the steady rhythm.

  “But they speak.”

  “They introduce our presence.”

  “Should we choose, we might introduce ourselves in a fashion of our own devising,” Adelos added. “Such drums have not been sounded in Damar since—”

  “Enough.” The Tor raised fist; the words ebbed into silence. But the drums demanded response. By gesture alone, Alessandro called six more of the Toran forward. He had intended to travel with two; he now chose a complement of eight. More would be insult.

  Less would be unwise.

  Celleriant raised his head. “ATerafin.”

  She frowned. “Thunder?”

  “Drums,” he replied. “Kallandras?”

  “Drums.” The bard frowned. “Among the plainsmen, drums were once a form of warning. Over time, they became a form of . . . greeting. But only between the tribal lords. The ruled did not choose to dare the drum’s voice.”

  “Kallandras, is there anything you don’t study?”

  “Senniel encourages diversity.” He offered her the briefest of smiles.

  “So . . . what we’re hearing here is?”

  “Is not a tribal greeting,” Celleriant replied, although she had offered the question to the bard.

  “No,” Kallandras said, nodding. “Invocation?”

  Celleriant’s gaze was fixed upon the distant source of the drumming.

  “Invocation,” Avandar replied. “Be wary, master bard. Be wary, lord of the Green Deepings.”

  Celleriant nodded.

  I hate being ignorant, Jewel thought.

  They are claimed by their element, the Winter King replied. They hear what the element hears. Although I do not understand how the mortal survives it, it is clear that he holds sway over air.

  And the other?

  Lord Celleriant is of the Arianni. Air, the Winter King said, but he spoke the word with less certainty, as if testing it. And earth, almost of a certainty.

  You think they’ll summon fire? She spoke of the enemy, unseen and unknown.

  Fire? No, ATerafin. Unless it suits their purpose, it is not the fire that they will invoke.

  She turned, then. Beyond the trees at the edge of the Deeping she gazed at the riverbank.

  She lived by the ocean. She understood the power—and the fury—of water.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SER Alessandro kai di’Clemente crossed the bridge at the head of the tight formation of his Toran. It was more difficult than he had imagined, for Quickheart attempted to stay his ground and brought his hooves up short at the edge of the bridge’s gentle slope. Reymos and Adelos had as much luck with their horses, but they were men of Mancorvo. The horses stilled beneath their knees and obeyed their silent command to walk forward.

  But their nervousness was lost to the determination of their riders, and when the river was behind them, Alessandro squared shoulders, hand falling to the hilt of his father’s sword. Damar was home to much history, much loss.

  But it was his. He did not therefore choose to approach his cousin as supplicant. But he did not choose to approach in obvious anger; the greater part of the kai Manelo’s force lay within the West of Damar, and that force did not serve Clemente. Prudence did, and prudence had served him well in the past.

  Even if he had cause to regret it.

  Lady.

  Could he have stopped his cousin’s obsessive whim on that single day of folly in the Torrean of Manelo? Could he have done more to deter him? Could he have seen the value that a simple half free clanswoman might have had to the kai el’Sol on that one day?

  And if not—and he had not—could he not have lifted sword in his cousin’s defense?

  As he cleared the bridge, the Western half of Damar stood revealed, and it was a much changed place. Some fires had burned too near the walls of buildings, blackening their surface, and the center of the village, reserved for the wagons and stalls that farmers built, had been cleared for Manelan use. At the heart of the market, built up from new wood, a platform rose; it was surrounded by the shoulders of cerdan.

  Of the fount of contemplation, there was no sign.

  He almost stopped, then, and his hands became fists. They would not dare. But they might; the fount itself was of little value; its history of less.

  The Tor’agnate, Ser Amando kai di’Manelo, stood on the platform’s height, arms by his sides, helm raised. He wore sword, surcoat, a shield upon his back; he stood beneath the lee of a banner that the wind barely moved. In and of himself, he was remarkable—but he was not alone: to his left and right, the drums stood, and behind them, men with flattened hands, beating asynchronous rhythm. The men were not armored and armed; they wore robes.

  The first sign.

  The pulse of the drums was loud and insistent, like a heartbeat that was somehow devoid of life, but not of blood.

  They made their demand, as he approached them.

  He bowed to their pressure in silence as Reymos allowed the
weight of the Clemente banner to fall, at last, in the silver and gray of moon’s light: the colors of Clemente. They were dark, here; they existed in spirit and memory, but the lamps did not give them the voice of hue; only the gold embroidery of the rising sun caught light, but the light was that of fire, not of day.

  Ser Franko kai di’Manelo’s father awaited him, like a final judgment.

  Yes, he thought, bitter now. He could have attempted to deter his cousin; to distract him. And failing that, he could have raised sword against the kai el’Sol. Of the two cousins, Ser Alessandro had always been the better swordsman.

  But he had done neither. Had chosen to do neither. He had offered his cousin his blood after the fact of an ignoble death, but that was all. Not even the vengeance laid upon kin was within his meager ability.

  He had hated the kai el’Sol. He had raged against him in the bitter heat of silence. He had all but vowed his revenge.

  But he had taken the girl and her husband from the Torrean of Manelo, and he had brought them here. He no longer remembered their names; they no longer used them. That had been wisest. He wondered where they were, this eve; if they hid in hovel or hut, if they slept in a simple bed beneath a flat roof, surrounded by growing fields, sleeping fields.

  Or if they had already perished; if Ser Amando had managed by some trickery or torture to find them here.

  For Alessandro had chosen to bring them to Damar.

  To leave them in Manelo was to guarantee their deaths, and in the end . . . in the end, although he hated the price that his cousin had paid for his crime, he accepted the judgment of the kai el’Sol. He could not speak to them; not to the girl, and not to the boy who had tried to protect her and had almost died a failure. But he could not leave them to die.

  Sin against honor.

  Sin against kin.

  What would he pay, in the end, for the folly of that choice?

  “Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente seeks words with Ser Amando kai di’Manelan,” Ser Reymos intoned, over the beat of drums.

  The line of Manelan Toran stood unbroken before the dais; the drums answered, louder now, a threat and not a greeting.

  Alessandro waited with a patience he did not feel. Such was the way of the High Clans: to wait; to hide behind the perfect composure of waiting all anger and all fear.

  “Ser Amando kai di’Manelo,” one of the Toran said, “will speak with you now.”

  The drums roared; their beat grew loud now, wild. The horses reared in terror.

  Beyond his back, Alessandro heard something like the rumbling movement of earth; heard above it the cries and shouts of voices made unfamiliar by fear. He could not turn—not easily—until he had mastered Quickheart. But he did not need to turn in the saddle, for Quickheart’s leap was a dance, a circular movement that almost unseated him.

  Part of that dance brought him to the East, where Alessandro could see what he had heard, although in that instant neither made immediate sense to him.

  The water in the river had risen from its bed like a wall, sundering bridge from either side of the village as if the wood and stone that anchored it were kindling and pebbles, children’s toys.

  They crested the edge of the forest as if the forest itself had finally chosen to draw curtains and reveal the outer world. Jewel stumbled over a root and bit her lip; she righted herself, palm planted in damp earth. But she did not curse; did not cry out. There was a watchful silence in the village of Damar that reminded her of storm laden sky before the beginning of a torrent.

  Avandar offered her a hand, and she accepted his aid before she realized what it meant: he had dismounted. Her eyes narrowed, but he shook his head in warning, and she subsided. Time, later, for argument.

  Celleriant lifted a slender arm. In the distance, she could see the village wall rising into the dark of horizon.

  And she remembered, as she looked at its odd shape, that Damar had no walls.

  “Yes,” Celleriant said quietly, seeing the shift in her expression. “The river has risen.”

  “Where is the Tor’agar?”

  “I cannot see him,” the Arianni lord replied, after a pause. “The dwellings are in my way.”

  Hers too. Now what? she thought, watching the moon’s light against the surface of moving water.

  “Now, ATerafin, we play a dangerous game.” Avandar’s voice was soft.

  So what else is new? Her legs ached. She wasn’t sure why. “If they see us—”

  “I believe we will know if we are spotted. But we have the advantage of numbers here,” he replied. Distant.

  “Advantage?”

  “We ride no horses, we wear no armor, we carry no banner. We are five, but the men who are stationed here will count us three; they will see threat in neither you nor . . . the Winter King. Unless,” he added softly, “you choose to ride him, in which case, they will see a threat in the two of you that will diminish ours.”

  It occurred to her, as he spoke, that he knew the name of the stag. The name he had been known by before he had chosen to accept the offer of the Winter Queen, before he had lost her dangerous game.

  Yes, he said quietly. I believe I do know it.

  Tell me? she asked him, without much hope. It evoked a grim smile.

  If you wish to know, do not ask him. Command him. He is yours, Jewel. Arianne did not release him—she gave him to you.

  But he knew she wouldn’t.

  She knew that he knew.

  I’m that predictable.

  Yes. But predictability is not always a sin, ATerafin. When you choose to trust a man’s word, why do you trust?

  Which man?

  He smiled. Why does it matter?

  She hesitated and then snorted. “All right. All right, I get it. You can stop the lesson now.”

  He bowed, expression grave. “Not all lessons are so easily halted, but I, too, am in your service.” And rose. “And as we are all in service to you—all of us save the master bard—we now await your decision. Which way, ATerafin?”

  Bastard.

  Warm air blew across the back of her neck. She turned to meet the luminous eyes of the Winter King. They were striking, the silvers and grays of night. More so, she thought, than they ever were when the sun rode the sky. She heard the question he didn’t ask, and she nodded; he knelt.

  She lifted herself across his back and held tight to his antlers as he rose.

  “All right,” she said curtly. “Kallandras?”

  “ATerafin.”

  “Do you want to split off with Celleriant, or will you follow my lead?”

  “I think it wisest that we remain together.”

  She nodded. “All right,” she said again. “That way.” It was time to play the game by instinct.

  Instinct. She smiled a moment and turned to catch the frown forming on Avandar’s lips.

  “Remember, ATerafin, that it is always wise to have a goal before one sets out.”

  “Wisdom and being here have almost nothing in common,” she replied.

  The Winter King’s laughter was silent, but she felt it and took comfort from it.

  Ser Amando kai di’Manelo stepped out from behind the ranks of his Toran; he crossed the height of the dais slowly, and with perfect grace. He removed his helm, and his hair, even by moonlight, was silvered; age was his mantle. He wore a beard, long and thin; like to a Widan’s beard, and not a Tor’s. His ears were pierced with rings.

  Only in the plains of Mancorvo could a man be so adorned without risk of scorn or derision. They were war rings, as much a part of the ferocity of his face as the scars he bore.

  At his side, tucked into the dark silk of broad sash, Ser Amando kai di’Manelo wore two swords. They were his finest adornments; their sheaths glittered brightly, even in the half-light. The C
lemente war sheath was more practical. Alessandro had chosen to wear it for expediency, but he regretted the lack of formality now.

  He was aware, however, that formality was far more than simple dress. Quickheart had stilled, but it had taken effort; the Manelo Toran were witness to that effort, and it was a costly humiliation.

  Or perhaps not; he noted as he dismounted that there were no horses present. The Tors of Mancorvo did not divest themselves easily of their mounts.

  Nor did they divest themselves of their men in time of war. Alessandro did not spare a glance to the obscenity of the river, although it cast an odd shadow at his feet; the shadow spoke of its height. What was done was done; he railed against it at his peril.

  Reymos and Adelos were likewise silent. They would fall here, if he chose a poor word, offered a poor gesture, but they would die like men; their hands were upon the hilts of their swords, and although the blades had not yet been drawn, such a gesture did not proffer disrespect.

  “Ser Amando,” Ser Alessandro said. His chin dipped; he did not offer a formal bow.

  Reminder of the difference in rank between the two clans. More of a reminder could not, in wisdom, be offered.

  “Ser Alessandro,” Ser Amando replied. He, too, forbore a bow. “I had almost despaired of your presence within Damar. The speed of your response to my requests was . . . uncharacteristic, cousin.”

  “Indeed. I was detained in Seral. Preparations for war are time-consuming, but you must be better aware of this fact than I.”

  Ser Amando revealed the grimmest of his smiles. “Must I? We are both the Lord’s men.”

  “Ah,” Alessandro said quietly, seeing the opening. “But which Lord, Ser Amando?”

  Jewel’s head snapped up.

  “ATerafin?” Avandar and Kallandras spoke as a single person.

  “Something bad just happened,” she told them. “And no, don’t ask me what.” She edged the stag forward. “But we’ve just lost a lot of time.”

  The smile ended abruptly. Alessandro was not grieved to see it pass. He stood at his full height; Amando had the advantage given him by the dais, no more.